the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

No, he thought.
Straight away he looked around him. The empty ramparts
surrounding the courtyard stared emptily back. Indeed, the whole area
was far quieter than he would have expected. He knelt to the body, his
fears realized as he turned it over to see Alexander’s lifeless eyes staring
back at him.
Then from above him came a voice and he straightened, spinning to
see a figure on the ramparts overlooking the courtyard. Dazzled by the
sun he put up a hand to shield his eyes, still unable to make out the face
of the man standing there. Was it Bouchart? Whoever it was, he wore
the red cross of the Crusader and stood with his legs slightly apart, his
hands on his hips, every inch of him the conquering hero.
The knight pointed at Alexander’s corpse. His voice was mocking: ‘A
friend of yours?’
Altaïr hoped soon to make the knight pay for that scorn. Now the
man shifted slightly and Altaïr was at last able to see him clearly. It was
the spy. The one who had called himself Barnabas in Kyrenia – who was
probably responsible for killing the real Barnabas. Another good man
dead. Altaïr hoped to make him pay for that too. His fists clenched and
the muscles in his jaw jumped. For the time being, though, the spy had
him at a disadvantage.
‘You,’ he called up to him. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘What did I tell you in Kyrenia?’ chuckled the knight – the spy.
‘Barnabas, wasn’t it?’
Suddenly a great shout went up and Altaïr turned to see a group of
citizens enter the courtyard. He had been set up. The spy had put out the
word against him. Now he was being framed for the murder of